


The Kiss to Break the Spell

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Consent, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Consent, Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Major Character Injury, Other, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25651306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: Crowley comes home one day to find Aziraphale left horribly injured by Heaven. Bodily hurts are easy enough to heal, but why won't Aziraphale wake up?In which Crowley worries, and cares, and worries some more, while his angels sleeps the days away.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 198





	The Kiss to Break the Spell

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt a follower on Tumblr suggested ONE MILLION years ago. (Which is why I have also forgotten who you are, I am so sorry!) H/C with Aziraphale and Heaven, and here we are!
> 
> A few content warnings:  
> \- Aziraphale begins the story really badly hurt, with some description, although he isn't shown to be in pain and of course is healed as soon as Crowley can.  
> \- Some discussion of Heaven's abuse, and that's what starts the whole story off, really.

“No. Nononono.” Crowley had let himself into his own flat, and oh good, now he could have extended, deep trauma about _both_ of their homes. Well, their one big home. That had two locations. The bookstore and the flat. _Technically_ there were chunks of London between the two, but that was irrelevant and anyway the entirety of England was their patch, let alone London.

The relationship between angels, demons, and geography was a discourse best left for another time. Like when he wasn't kneeling over Aziraphale's shattered body.

_They_ had done this. Angels. Most of Crowley's protections – and few enough they were, and that was  _truly_ his sin, never mind the questioning stuff – had been against demons. And besides, they were supposed to be left alone! That's what they'd done. They'd scared them off.

Not entirely, apparently; someone had to show up and do their best to put Aziraphale in as much pain as possible. It was so... _stupid_ . He was a bitchy, kind, wonderful angel who was mediocre at best at his job. What was the victory in shattering his wings? Or his  _arms_ , for that matter, which they'd done too?

He was unconscious, thank Somebody. Crowley could kneel by him and gently roll him over, amidst the blood and the broken glass and the shattered china, and Aziraphale didn't stir, far beyond the agony he would be in if he were awake. 

“Angel, angel, I'm sorry,” Crowley said, biting back a sob. “It's all right. I'm here now. I'm here, you're safe, I'm so sorry.” He touched Aziraphale's cheek and healed the split skin and the bruise. Touched the swelling around his eye. Oh, they'd broken his reading glasses. 

What  _petty_ creatures these angels were. What a  _waste_ . Aziraphale was the most important being in all of Crowley's life, since the first time he'd sheltered under a pale wing on the Wall, but what was he to Heaven? Less than what Crowley was to Hell in some ways. Not worth  _bothering_ with, except that someone had clearly been enraged by his...oh dear Satan, no. 

“Is this because of me?” Crowley wondered aloud, as he healed shattered bones, Aziraphale's arms straight and soft and strong again. Was it his little performance with the fire? He had meant to scare off. To give Gabriel a little of the fear he'd implanted in Aziraphale for so many years. To let out a tiny part of his rage at the way they treated his best friend. Sure _Crowley_ had spent plenty of time whinging and groaning and even truly arguing with the angel, but he'd never been cruel. Never mean. Even when they fought, it wasn't from _hatred_.

Crowley paused and refused to cry, his hand on Aziraphale's hip, healing a terrible dislocation. Crying wouldn't help anything, wouldn't change the past, and wouldn't speed his angel's healing. Neither would meditating on how a little breathed fire had apparently so threatened some angels that they had had to exact revenge. None of that would help, so Crowley, an expert at facades, pushed it all deep and calmly went on healing Aziraphale.

It took a long time. It was hard. But, eventually, Aziraphale lay on the floor without a hair out of place, not even a bruise or a chipped bone or a twisted ankle to hint at the awful things visited on his body. No long days of recuperation for him, no need for plaster or braces or even a tiny bandage. Crowley had even settled his hair, now cleaned of sweat and blood and awful things, into lovely soft curls. 

He was simply – asleep. Well, Crowley was pretty exhausted too; one last miracle and they were both in his big bed, wide enough that they could share without touching. Not that that was usually the case – they quite liked touching one another. Cuddling. Kissing. Not really more than that, but Crowley often thought they made up for lack of variety by sheer volume. Hardly an hour went by, when they were in company together, that Aziraphale didn't touch his arm, or kiss his cheek. In turn, Crowley was quite fond of gathering Aziraphale into his arms, a diffuse, gentle hug for a touch-starved angel. They kissed every morning and night, without fail, and often in between. Once or twice, that was  _all_ they did in between.

But tonight, just in case he'd missed something – he hadn't, but just in  _case_ – Crowley thought he'd rather discorporate himself than chance bumping into Aziraphale and jostling some missed hurt.

It also seemed...cheeky? Taking liberties? They were so careful with each other, checking that whatever they were doing was all right with body language and pauses or, when they were very brave, with actual words,. Crowley had been touched rather too much against his will, thank you kindly, and it comforted him that Aziraphale had never so much as kissed his hand without telegraphing every move so that someone in Barnsley was about to call them up and tell them to go at it already, the suspense was killing them.

So tonight, just for tonight, when Aziraphale couldn't consent, Crowley carefully tucked him in with his favourite pillow and their nice, soft duvet, and settled himself on the other side of the very big bed, curled up, and immediately fell asleep.

He must have slept hard and deep; well, healing miracles could be tiring. Perhaps worry was too, but Crowley needn't have, for Aziraphale was still fast asleep when Crowley woke. Breathing and with a heartbeat and everything, just – asleep. Still on his back, but softer, a little sprawled, one hand open and his soft palm up.

Crowley slipped his hand into Aziraphale's just for a moment, not wanting to wake him. He'd been through so much, his poor angel. It was no surprise he was still asleep. 

He tucked Aziraphale in more carefully, and checked him over once more, but no, Crowley's demonic workings had healed him up perfectly; not even a bruise left behind. Good.

He made a cup of tea and set it by Aziraphale's side of the bed; it would stay warm and fresh and fragrant until he woke. He adjusted a pillow, and smiled when Aziraphale sighed in his sleep and snuggled into the bed, just a tiny bit. They were still quite dedicated to working on their snuggling – together, that is. They were very, very good at it, Crowley thought, but one could never have too much practice.

He smiled and smoothed Aziraphale's hair, purposefully fluffing one of his curls, but otherwise forced himself to stop touching. Sleep was what was best – didn't he know that himself?

“I'll be nearby,” he murmured, not sure Aziraphale could hear, but needing to say. “I'm not leaving this flat.”

A pause.

“I love you,” he murmured, too soft to almost be a sound. Not from shame, _never_. Just. It was too big and true to say casually. And maybe some part of him was still braced for Aziraphale to be shocked or hurt, or simply not return the feeling in the same way.

But all was quiet now, and Crowley tip-toed out of the room, gently sliding the door shut. Aziraphale would be held in soft silence and comfort, and a cup of tea as soon as he woke up. That would have to be enough.

Crowley wasn't normally much of a one for manual labour, not seeing the point when he could snap his fingers, but with no one present to tease him, cleaning up his trashed sitting room was – well, it was horrible. There was  _blood_ on the floor,  _his angel's blood_ . And broken things that he didn't want to repair, merely swept up and threw away. He scrubbed the blood away.

He was already crying, ugly tears he had tried to fight against, when he found Aziraphale's reading glasses. So nothing changed, they didn't set off a new heartbreak, because there was already one there. What was the  _point_ ? Had Aziraphale even had time to fight back? He was a warrior, deep down. Would they have wanted the satisfaction of seeing him fight back, or had it all happened too fast?

Crowley sat on the floor, bucket of water beside him, and held the twisted metal and shards of glass gently in his cupped hands, and breathed on them, restoring them to wholeness. He set them aside, safely on a low table, and went back to getting the bloodstains out of his floor.

It took a few hours in the end, going careful and slow, until his sitting room was back in one piece. A few plants were demoted to fill in the spots a broken vase and shattered sculpture had been, and he pulled a carpet out of another room when even the clean bare floor was too much to look at. It did make the room feel softer, a little cosier. Maybe they could split a bottle of wine in here later.

Surely Aziraphale would be waking up soon; he  _never_ slept this long. He'd be getting hungry, if nothing else.

Crowley vanished the cleaning supplies and went to check on his angel, feeling a little hopeful, finally. He'd be awake soon, if he wasn't already when Crowley checked in on him, and they would hug and kiss and Crowley could fuss and Aziraphale could fuss back, because he was alive and well to do that.

He was still asleep, though. His face relaxed and soft, and he'd curled onto his side, and was – well, he was a little bit precious, all right? Crowley wasn't made of  _stone_ .

Quite the opposite, at least in the moment. He pulled the duvet up a little higher and tucked it around Aziraphale's shoulders. “Sleepyhead,” he murmured. “Poor thing. Did it hurt when I healed you? I'm so sorry. Rest, all right? You don't need to do anything but sleep. You're safe. I'm sorry you weren't before. I failed you. But I won't again, d'you hear? I'll keep you as safe as you keep me. I'm so sorry, angel.” He touched Aziraphale's hair and squeezed his shoulder, and let him be. Maybe the demonic workings he'd done hadn't helped as much as he thought. 

Crowley tried to keep himself busy, he really did. It didn't work so well, but he  _tried_ . For hours, which can be a surprisingly long period of time even if you're effectively immortal and have lived thousands of years and probably more than that, but before time was invented. But he managed, sort of, until well into the afternoon, when he thought it might not hurt to wake Aziraphale. Sure, he'd probably be a bit grumpy, but Crowley just wanted to check on him, maybe get a bit of food into him, and then he could sleep and be safe and rest and all those good things for as long as he wanted. Just...not hungry. Or hurting. Or something.

“Hey, angel.” He sat on the edge of the bed and shook Aziraphale's shoulder gently. “Wake up, lazy. Just want to say hi.”

Aziraphale sighed and settled deeper into sleep.

“C'mon,” Crowley whined. Whining usually worked. “You spend centuries not sleeping and now this?”

No response.

“Well, all right,” Crowley said. “Guess you know what's best.”

More quiet. Why was his flat so  _quiet_ ?

“Only I. Y'know. Um.” Say it. You claim to love him, you can prove it. He deserves it. “I miss you, Aziraphale,” he said, so soft even if he was awake Aziraphale might not have heard it. 

Still. He patted his angel's shoulder, and tucked him in again, and went to distract himself some more.

So the next two days passed. Crowley would chase himself off to do something,  _anything,_ so that he wasn't staring at Aziraphale's prone body. He checked over and over but no, he wasn't hurt. He was, simply, asleep. For three days. He moved and rolled over and sighed and, once, even drooled a little, but mostly he was fast asleep.

Crowley was starting to worry – this wasn't normal. Maybe for him, maybe a little bit, but it wasn't normal at  _all_ for Aziraphale, and so he worried. Aziraphale didn't sleep for more than a few hours, let alone  _days_ . He wasn't doing this on his own. There was...an angelic tinge about it, perhaps?

Crowley sat by him again, hand on his shoulder. He didn't like to touch Aziraphale when he was asleep – didn't seem right, or fair. Aziraphale should be able to pick when he got touched. But maybe he wouldn't mind; he never seemed to, was always happy to hug or kiss or cuddle, as long as Crowley was.

Maybe some of the carefulness was how he wanted himself to be treated.

This! This was what days of solitude and worry brought on!  _Self-awareness_ ! It wasn't to be stood for.

“Angel, wake up,” he called, voice just a tiny bit firmer. Maybe that would do it? “Aziraphale, you've been asleep for three days!”

He rolled over, at least, and lay on his back, but didn't wake.

Crowley sighed. “I miss you. You know that? I miss you. I'm sorry. I hope you're not hurting. I hope you're all right in there.” He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale's brow, the lightest imaginable touch. “Please wake up?”

Well, fuck everything, because as soon as he pulled away, as soon as he sat up, Aziraphale was blinking his eyes open and smiling. “Crowley!”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley's jaw dropped and he couldn't do anything for a moment. “You're awake.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him. “And healed. You did that, didn't you?”

“Well, uh, yeah. Um. Of course. Are you all right? Does anything hurt at all?” A little anxious, Crowley touched his arm, stroking the smooth cotton of his shirt. “Do you need anything?”

“Is that a cup of tea?” Aziraphale pushed himself up and didn't reach for the tea but did reach for Crowley and oh, oh, how had he gone three days without this hug. How had he gone so long without Aziraphale right there, without kisses and cuddles and laughing when they fell back onto the bed together, Crowley now safe in his arms, and Aziraphale safe in Crowley's arms. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Kept it warm for you. Oh, angel.”

“Was I asleep for long?” Aziraphale asked.

“Three days.” Crowley bit his lip. “What happened?”

“Gabriel, of course.” Aziraphale sighed. “I...didn't stand a chance. I'm sorry.”

“I! You! Sorry! For _what_?” Crowley squawked.

“I tried to fight, but he's stronger,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I tried, I promise. I'm sorry you had to...see me like that.”

“It is so _unbelievably_ not something you need to apologize for. No, no, listen to me. _Love_. Listen.” Well that got his fucking attention, and also Crowley might turn into a puddle. First a snake, then a puddle. “Aziraphale, you didn't do anything wrong. You're the...the victim, here. Yes, it broke my heart to come home and find you, um, how I found you. But that's not your fault.” He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, soft angel who no one should hate, and buried his face in Aziraphale's neck for a moment. “You were so badly hurt. It must have been awful.”

“Well, it didn't tickle,” Aziraphale said. He was slow, always slow and careful, cautious as he embraced Crowley. What had been for so long been fear for Crowley's safety had been replaced by different concerns – that he would be overwhelmed, that old fears were too present, that his consent which had never mattered to anyone was now paramount. They went slow, and Crowley was so unspeakably grateful he teased Aziraphale every single day for his gentlemanly ways.

Hugs were nearly routine now, though, and in that moment Crowley went easily into being held, and holding Aziraphale in turn. He'd been beaten within an inch of discorporation, after all – that demanded some comforts, and Crowley rubbed his back and held him and melted in how warm and wonderful this all was.

“Why did you sleep so long?” he asked softly.

Aziraphale pulled back and smiled at him, warm and merry, and what had Crowley said. “Ah. That's your fault, my love.”

“Urk. I. Wot?” Crowley would have a breakdown over _my love_ later, he mentally scheduled it and moved on. “What did I do wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“ _No_.” His skittish angel was _very_ clear on that. “You healed me. You saved me. I...I'm afraid I was quite useless at trying to keep myself going.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, and _blushed_. “Gabriel sent me to sleep. If I survived, I could only, um. Be woken by a kiss.”

“Of course. Of bloody course,” Crowley groaned. “That _wanker_.”

“It took you three days to kiss me?” Aziraphale asked with a soft smile.

“You were asleep! You couldn't tell me it was all right!” Crowley shook his head. “I can't tell what's worse. If he just assumed that no one would want to kiss you, or if he'd rather chance you being kissed against your will.”

“Oh, the first,” Aziraphale said, and his smile went a little bitter. “The second would likely never occur to him. Definitely the first. He's going to be shocked I only slept three days.”

“Well, bollocks to him.” Crowley tucked Aziraphale a little closer, making it clear that there was going to be no question about Aziraphale being kissable. “Now that you're awake, though – may I kiss you? Properly?”

Aziraphale smiled, and relaxed even more, and Crowley was not sure what to do with this gift, other than keep going, keep running forward into forging a  _them_ , as he tilted his head and kissed Aziraphale, familiar mouth and familiar taste, their bodies easing together the way they always had in some way or another.

Crowley had been able to mend shattered bones and torn muscles and terrible cuts, and now he could help mend the things that took more than a miracle. The belief that Aziraphale was unlovable and undesirable. That he'd lie on a demon's floor and be neglected. That he wouldn't be kissed. That no one would want him after Heaven had nothing to do with him. Crowley could want him enough to make up for the whole of Heaven, and he did, oh, he did, filling his arms with Aziraphale and kissing him over and over, until he forgot about the tea and it grew cold, and neither of them cared a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


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